


Reckless Roses

by mikasuhdude



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikasuhdude/pseuds/mikasuhdude
Summary: Not every couple is blessed with fertility.





	1. Acolyte

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This'll be a relatively short fic—only a few chapters (haven't exactly articulated how many chapters but currently I've landed on four). This is going to be pretty angsty jdklaj. Pls enjoy!<3

It must have been just past sunrise, hues of orange and pink smudged against March’s watercolored sky. City life was only just starting to awaken, singing birds accompanied by the faint buzzing of cars. A window sat adjacent to a queen-sized bed. Perhaps it should have been closed shut the night prior to avoid the noisy nuisance of morning, even if night breeze provided relief that encouraged two individuals to confide in each other’s arms as they slept.

Sun spilled onto crinkled bedsheets, shadows cast against every bump and crease of the white cotton. A woman rested atop the sheets, her head thrown to the side and her arm above it. Her eyes were held shut, brows knitted together in the midst of a dream. As rays poured into the apartment, sunlight fashioned the illusion of honey glistening upon her parted lips.

A man, his hair unkempt, reached over the sleeping beauty to shut the window, concerned over the cars that rudely claxoned, unaware of the honey lips that slept peacefully. The man grunted, weaving himself into white bedding once the dilemma that threatened the sleeping woman was resolved. He rested his head in his palm, elbow resting comfortably against white.

She was beautiful, dark hair revealing glimpses of chocolate as March made itself known. The gentle slope of her nose, the jut of her collarbones, the endearing chubbiness of the cheek that pressed against a pillow. The man didn’t know what he did that gifted him the resting honey lips—the acolyte who worshiped the act of requited love alongside him.

She stirred, a gentle hum murmured behind the gates of honey.

“Morning, Mikasa,” his voice was low, gravelly from having just woken up. He lifted his hand to brush dark chocolate strands behind the woman’s ear.

“Eren,” the gentleness that accompanied his name was all-consuming. “What time is it?”

“It’s early. You can go back to sleep.”

His hand shifted to cup the back of her head, fingers gently massaging her lower scalp. Her eyes fluttered shut, the softest of smiles emerging in response to his touch. He watched honey lips drift in his grip, and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead when he was certain she had fallen asleep again.

…

Mikasa Yeager often missed her husband whenever he was at work, teaching the youth of America the differences between antonyms and synonyms, how to multiply double digits and so on. Her favorite part of the day was when he’d come back home to their tiny apartment, tired eyes expressing the jubilated stories of fourth graders.

But it seemed she spent most of her mornings alone in that tiny apartment as she took care of chores: make the bed, wash the dishes, fold the laundry, take out the trash, repeat. The domestic lifestyle of a “stay-at-home wife” wasn’t the role Mikasa had imagined taking on when she was younger, for she had much rather preferred soaring among the daydreams of a nine-year-old girl’s ambitious heart.

She supposed she would find a stable job in the future, for she had made a dumb decision two years ago.

Well, _they_ had made a dumb decision _together_ two years ago. God, how stupid they were. Stupid, young and dumb to even consider marrying at only twenty. And they were still young and dumb, that fact painfully carving itself throughout the woodwork of the Yeagers’ life with how _broke_ the couple was. Only one car that sat on the brink of death, only four-hundred square feet of an apartment that felt suffocating, only one job that barely allowed them to scrape by.

Eren had insisted she stay home, to let him be her caretaker, the providing head of their small family so that she could relax until death did them part. If she were to travel back to their early marriage days, she would have been quick to protest, determined and ungoverned in her spirit, but Mikasa felt too, _too_ exhausted now to turn down her husband’s suggestions. He had the good intentions behind them, anyway.

Mikasa flushed the toilet, a white stick shaky in her grip. Familiar tears stung in her eyes. She was tired of this result. So, _so_ tired of it.

Negative, yet again.

…

“Mr. Yeager,” a small voice came, “why didn’t I score perfectly on the vocabulary quiz?”

Eren bolted his head up from grading papers to meet the soft blue eyes of one of his students. Her lips formed into a pout, a piece of paper crumpling in her hands.

“Well, let’s take a look at it, Historia.”

He let out a hand, gesturing for the nine-year-old’s quiz. She gingerly handed him the paper, Eren’s eyes scanning across scribbled writing to see a red mark adjacent the word, ‘ _father_.’

He tilted his head at the obvious erase marks on the paper, and he recalled that the young girl wrote ‘ _fattir_ ,’ not ‘ _father’_ (he had pointed out this sweet mistake to Mikasa when he graded the papers at home, a memory of the duo laughing unmistakably clear in his mind).

Historia had a history of trying to convince Mr. Yeager that _he_ was always in the wrong when it came to her assignments. Frankly, he found it humorous how the nine-year-old was headstrong in proving she was the perfect student who could do no wrong.

“Well,” he started, finger pointed at the red mark on her paper. “You misspelled this one. That’s why.”

“No, look,” she pouted more, a small index finger pointing to eraser shavings. “I _did_ spell it right. You probably messed up when grading.”

It was criminal the amount of effort it took the man the keep himself from chuckling. He looked past her shoulder to see the rest of his class buzzing over a coloring assignment. Eren’s voice was soft yet stern when his gaze returned to the blonde girl. “Historia, you don’t want me to write you up for academic dishonesty, do you?”

Red flushed her cheeks, and he noticed her composure tense up. “No.”

He paused for a moment. “I don’t think Principal Levi would be happy to have a talk with you about lying to your teacher, do you?”

“No, Mr. Yeager.” Historia’s head hung, voice shaky from the threat of being sent to the principal’s office.

_That_ was the card that always seemed to hit the kids the hardest. Eren would never _actually_ send a child to bother Levi unless it was a serious incident. The _most_ that could happen would be a parent-teacher phone call, but she didn’t need to know that.

Eren cleared his throat, the young girl’s head lifting in response. “You got a nine out of ten on this week’s quiz—that’s really good, Historia.”

She only shrugged, tentative to keep eye contact with her mentor.

“Watch this,” he stopped the role of the strict teacher to play the kind one. He grabbed a piece of paper, writing the word ‘ _father.’_

The young girl’s eyebrows knitted together, head tilted as she watched him circle the two syllables of the word.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but next time you struggle to spell ‘ _father_ ,’” he used his pencil to point to the different parts of the word as he spoke. “Think of it like ‘ _fat_ ’ and ‘ _her_.’”

She held a small hand to her mouth as muffled giggles begged to pour out of her. “That’s mean!”

“That’s why I said not to tell anyone,” he gave her an innocent wink before morphing into the role of the strict teacher a final time. “I don’t want to have to talk to you about honesty again, Historia.”

She stopped her giggles to nod her head quickly, guilt placing itself in her soft blues.

“Because it’s not kind to lie, and we want to always do the right thing.”

“I understand,” her voice was soft once more. “I’m sorry, Mr. Yeager.”

His heart melted at the apology even though he knew they were bound to have this conversation again next week. “It’s okay, I forgive you. Go sit down and work on your assignment with your friends, okay?”

Historia nodded her head and flashed a nervous smile, spinning on her heel to run over to her desk to join another young girl, brunette with freckles. Eren sighed and let his eyes drift back to the math he was previously grading. His mind pondered over the alphabet instead of numerals.

‘ _Father._ ’

Those six letters were the very thing that disappointed him as a child; the six letters he wanted to redefine in spite of his childhood; the six letters one of the titles Mikasa and Eren had dreamed of achieving. At this rate, that dream seemed too high for them to reach.

‘ _Father._ ’

He hated that word.

…

His hair was getting long, the beginnings of a mullet forming at the back. The brown had a tendency in developing a subtle curl whenever he’d let the strands go past his ears, a little detail that Mikasa found endearing. She never knew if she preferred when his hair was trimmed properly or not since her fingers loved to take refuge within his strands.

He was in the kitchen, brewing coffee despite the clock reading four o’ clock. Peculiar for a Friday afternoon.

“The older grades are taking mock final exams this year in preparation for middle school,” he justified. “Administration asked that I draft a mock test. It’s due on Monday.”

Mikasa furrowed her brows, hugging her husband from the behind and resting her cheek against his back. She reminisced over the healthy muscles that used to take refuge there. “Well, that’s lame.”

“It’s super lame. They asked me to draft a test for _all_ of fourth grade.”

She furrowed her brows. “Why on Earth would they ask you to do that?”

“Guess I’ve proved myself or somethin’ like that,” he shrugged. Mikasa noticed his breathing begin to parallel hers. “If anything it’ll get me closer to a promotion, right?”

She thought for a moment before closing her eyes, the smell of coffee occupying the little air that resided in their apartment. “You always let admin take advantage of you.”

He let out a sad laugh, and she heard the sound of a drink poured into a mug. “True, but what am I supposed to do about it?”

She frowned. “Give ‘em a good talking to, that’s what.”

He chuckled again, slowly turning around to face his wife. Mikasa noticed the cruel bags underneath his eyes that carried too much responsibility, his posture slumped from bearing too much on his shoulders. Even with the way he smiled at her, she couldn’t help but notice how his lips begged to twitch into an absentminded frown.

She refused to let his smile disappear, even if it was artificial and forced for her sake. She stepped on her tiptoes, placing a kiss on his lips, the bitter aftertaste of coffee lingering on him. Mikasa wasn’t particularly fond of the drink whereas Eren would endure withdrawals if he didn’t have caffeine at _least_ once a day.

He pulled away, hands grabbing onto her arms, a tanned thumb running up and down her bicep. “What’s that for?”

“I’m just thankful for you,” she responded, and she was. Oh, most definitely she was. “You do and provide so much.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“Don’t.” She was quick to shut him down. What more was he to do? Get a second job? Sell the car so they could place a downpayment for a bigger living space? No, he did too much already.

He gave her a chaste kiss, resting his chin on the crown of her head afterward. His voice was soft, low for only her ears to hear. “Just a few more months left of the school year. You’ll have me entirely after that.”

And she missed the summer, how June sunsets produced purples and oranges that caught Eren’s attention, his head in the clouds while hers rested on his chest. She missed how they’d slow dance together in the kitchen at two in the morning, Eren’s voice gravelly and hushed to sing the lyrics of _Bring It On Home To Me_ against the curve of her ear. She missed how he didn’t have to leave so early in the morning, how she could wake up before her husband and stare at him sleeping amidst the spilling sunlight.

Three months where he was entirely hers, and Mikasa selfishly took up all of his time to make up for all the lonely days she endured—abandoned autumns, wary winters, somber springs.

“We’ll get through it,” he continued, each syllable laced with reassurance and understanding.

She only closed her eyes, arms wrapping around his torso to pull him further into an embrace. He was speaking of the school year, but Mikasa’s mind wandered to other things the duo had to endure. How cruel it was, the number of things they were supposed to ‘get through.’

…

To say Eren was thankful for electives was an understatement—how his class was sent away for an hour each day so that he may relax, grade, eat, do whatever it was he decided. It was Tuesday, the children were in art class, and Eren found himself in the teacher’s lounge. He was sitting at a table, scribbling away on a piece of paper.

A brown, paper-bag slammed itself in front of Eren, and he lifted his head to meet hazel eyes. 

“Filling out an incident report?” The gold inquired, swirls of brown and green dancing around pupils as if the black served as the focal point of a ball dance.

Jean Kirschtein—third-grade teacher and Eren’s good friend. The man sat across Eren, ripping open his paper-bag to dive into a plain sandwich. The unmistakable smell of peanut butter started to fill the lounge.

“Yeah,” Eren shrugged with a single shoulder, eyes drifting down to meet the report in front of him. “I had a kid drop the f-bomb.”

Muffled laughter was heard behind sandwich bites, Jean eventually wiping crumbs off of his mouth to let out a single chuckle.“Let me guess…”

“Ymir.” They both chimed, smirks digging into the lips of both men.

Jean shook his head, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Man, that girl was a _handful_ when I taught her last year.”

“I like her,” Eren shrugged, slumping back into his chair with crossed arms. “She’s a funny kid.”

“Still attached at the hip with Historia?”

“You bet.”

The gentlemen reminisced stories of children in their classes—Eren giving updates on the students Jean used to teach, Jean providing warnings for students Eren was going to teach. Part of the reason as to why the teachers bonded so well was due to the exchanges they’d share, nostalgia in trade for the upcoming.

They would butt heads every now and then, their morals and perspectives not always aligned, but Eren was grateful to have Jean as a friend. Most of the other teachers were older women, and while he was cordial with most everyone he met, Eren did enjoy having another guy friend to simply relate to in the workplace when he wasn’t hanging out with a bunch of nine-year-olds.

“I heard fourth and fifth grade are taking mock finals now,” Jean’s gaze fixated on Eren, his eyes illustrating the slightest concern in them, “and that administration put you in charge of drafting an exam.”

“You heard right,” Eren let out a sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“They’re overstepping.”

Green eyes blinked open, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“They’re asking a lot of you and whoever was assigned for fifth grade. Sounds pretty unfair to me.”

Eren shrugged, musing for a moment. _That_ was a sentiment that he could actually agree with—it was unfair that he was expected to go through piles of lesson plans to create a last-minute scantron test in only two days. He didn’t know which was harder: creating questions for lessons he hadn’t taught yet or creating questions for lessons he taught _months_ prior.

But he only closed his eyes again crossing his arms to slump further into an uncomfortable, plastic chair. “What can ya do about it?”

An “I don’t know” sound came from the back of Jean’s throat. “You could talk to Levi about it.”

He scoffed. “As if.”

“You’re such a ‘ _yes man_ ,’ Eren,” he opened his eyes to watch Jean roll his, mimicking Eren’s crossed arms. “Administration takes note of people who’re willing and they overwork them.”

He let out a titter, imagining chocolate brown strands of hair and honey lips that reiterated the same ideas. “You sound like my wife.”

“If that’s the case, then she’s smart,” hazel eyes stood up, gathering the trash from his lunch and throwing the scraps away. “You can say ‘ _no_ ’ to these sort of things, y’know?”

And Eren only responded with silence, watching his coworker leave the break room to return to, presumably, his classroom. Eren decided it was time for him to do the same since electives were to end in five minutes.

_“You can say ‘no’ to these sorts of things, y’know?”_

No, Jean—no, he couldn’t. Eren had to focus on paying off old student loans, had to focus providing Mikasa a comfortable lifestyle, had to focus on paying off medical bills from doctor’s appointments where the couple would only receive heartbreaking news. Jean didn’t understand, and that was okay. Eren didn’t expect him to understand.

The fourth-grade teacher pushed aside his exhaustion, the intricacies of his work brushed under the rug so that he may force a smile to students in an art classroom. The kiddos lit up as he walked in the room, the collection shouting, _“Mr. Yeager, look at the painting I did!”_

_…_

Their sex equated to recklessly pulling roses from the ground.

How he would kiss her, touch her, love her were the petals that blossomed and flourished beautifully. Red was his skin, soft were the moans he muffled, captivating were the expressions he’d make when he was intimate with her—the way his eyebrows would furrow to crinkle his forehead, how his eyes squeezed shut and how his mouth would shape into a large _o_. _That_ was beautiful, how Mikasa was the only woman in the world who witnessed his vulnerability.

But thorns stuck in her hands—painful, _painful_ reminders of how she would never be able to take the seeds of those roses and sprinkle them out into the world to flourish and blossom a family. It didn’t matter how many nights she’d whimper his name in submission, for nothing ever came out of the gardens they’d attempt to grow. Perhaps this was punishment for being young and dumb, marrying all too young. And perhaps the punishment would only continue, considering the couple was still young and dumb for trying to disprove what was gospel.

Was she to be denied the pitter-patter of little feet? She could hear those feet roam about in her dreams—dreams where she would hold her own bundle of life. Eren was always at her side, uttering something cliché like, _“She has your hair,”_ or _“He has my nose,”_ but Mikasa was always focussed on how the child had the same green eyes she fell in love with.

And she felt so guilty over how her mind was wanderlust when Eren made love to her—the woman thinking about little hands that would wrap around her thumb instead of admiring the way her husband created music, their bodies serving as instruments.

Mikasa found it impossible to escape those small hands, those sweet voices that would call out to find security in her arms. It wouldn’t be until Eren said a certain line, made a certain move or gazed at her a certain way that he would draw her out of the deep well she fell into.

“Eren,” she would gasp, his name sweet on her tongue as he drank hitched laments that fell from her lips.

It was funny, how words of pleasure were synonymous with words of pain. Moan, groan, whimper, whine. Mikasa couldn’t tell if she was feeling physical pleasure or emotional pain when she cried out his name. When he pulled away from their kisses to place his head in-between her legs, Mikasa convinced herself she was feeling the former.

Red was her heaving chest, red was the line that white sticks proclaimed. Red were his flushed cheeks, red were her thorn-infested hands. Red was the captivating passion the couple exchanged at night, red was the growing anger she felt each passing day.

And when her underwear was red the next morning, Mikasa could only cry.


	2. Straws

“Please stay home today,” was what echoed behind a wooden threshold, the four words resonating throughout a tile bathroom.

He intended to go to work that afternoon, to have a meeting with administration in regards to the mock exam he had submitted last week, but upon hearing his wife’s voice, bitter agony produced from honey lips, Eren knew he had to stay home.

He knocked on the door and waited for a response, a gentle hum calling out to him. He opened it slowly, his heart made broken once his eyes met Mikasa sitting on the toilet—face in her hands as her elbows pressed into the tops of her thighs, underwear loose around her ankles. Eren took note of the burgundy that had painted the silk. He hesitantly walked in front of her, kneeling on the ground to say, “Alright, I’ll stay.”

And dark chocolate eyes slowly lifted to stare at her husband, a parasitic garden taking refuge among her features—bundles of iris and lavender sprouting underneath her tired eyes as solemn roses sprouted all along her cheeks and chest. Perhaps the ugly garden drew nutrients from the saltwater that veiled her eyes. She looked wilted, exhausted.

“I, uh…” A sad, _sad_ titter whittled itself through her words. “I got my period.”

“I can tell,” he made sure to keep his voice soft, his right hand lifting to cup her face. His thumb massaged her skin to wipe away the tears, to trim down the flowers that drew too much life out of her. Mikasa closed her eyes in response to his touch, and he gently caressed her lid, thumb growing hypersensitive to feel each of her lashes.

“It’s a shame.” Eren used his other hand to vaguely gesture at the stained silk that wrapped around her ankles. “I really liked that pair.”

And she breathed out a laugh, eyes fluttering open for Eren to see two pebbles that gingerly rested on saltwater lakes, the shores of her waterline fighting back the tears from falling. It was comfortably quiet for a moment before her hand gently held onto the one that cupped her face. Mikasa’s voice was all too shaky for her husband’s liking.

“We failed again.”

When she whispered those three words, Eren could hear two faint but sweet voices call out to him. He heard them giggle, heard proclaim him as that six lettered word he hated, and then he heard those voices fade away until they were gone. Reality seemed to feel a little harsher when those giggles escaped him.

Eren only shook his head. “We’ll get it right.”

When he returned to work the next day and Eren heard the giggles of his students, he kept thinking about the wilted woman he knelt before. He thought of the blood-stained underwear that served as a ball and chain, the bathroom filled with that cruel, _cruel_ smell of iron. He thought about the parasites that disguised themselves as flowers to brag against her skin. He thought about her undeserving tears, her broken syllables, her watered-down chocolate. He had seen her in that state before, too many times for him to count, but that specific morning seemed to haunt Eren for days.

And the image seemed to reinforce itself whenever his students excitedly greeted him each morning; whenever they drew pictures for him throughout the day; whenever they inspired smiles on his face—genuine, _real_ smiles on his face. The children were so full of life, so blissfully ignorant to how their existence reminded Eren of the undeserving reality his family was forced to endure. How cruel it was: to be a fourth-grade teacher who was denied the right of fruitfulness (though the formal title of ‘Mr. Yeager’ did help his nerves).

It was elective time, his students learning all about the Dewey Decimal System in Mr. Arlert’s library. Eren decided to stay in his own classroom this Thursday to quietly eat lunch. As he opened his brown, paper bag, a note caught his attention, the words inspiring a subtle smile on his lips.

_‘Turkey and sourdough—your favorite.’_

With that smile on his face, Eren imagined a woman in the kitchen, discreetly scribbling away on a sheet of paper to smuggle into his lunch. When did she have time to write that note, anyway? Perhaps it was while he was in the shower, or maybe it was when his back was turned to pour a cup of coffee. She _did_ seem quite smug that morning, handing her husband his lunch and placing a modest kiss on his lips to shoo him out of the door saying, _“Bring home the bacon, Eren!”_

Eren decided to think about _that_ image instead of the discouraged woman in the bathroom. He found comfort in the woman he had fallen in love with at such a stupid age, everything about that pair of honey lips so saccharine, so sweet. He thought about how her hair was iridescent in the morning light, how her grace left him to a point where he could only stare at her in awe, mouth in the shape of a small _o_ in anticipation of what she would do next.

He loved her—more than anything. How _dare_ red lines on white sticks be the wall, the barrier that separated her from happiness, that separated _them_ from happiness.

There was a knock on his classroom door.

“Mr. Yeager?”

Eren lifted his gaze from his sandwich to meet dull blues. The fourth-grade teacher wiped crumbs from his mouth, dressing himself in a cordial atmosphere. “Afternoon, Levi. How goes it?”

“It goes,” the principal’s voice was distant, audibly forcing itself to endure small talk before reaching the meat of conversation. “Just your typical Thursday: where Friday feels so close and yet so far away.”

“Ah, I get what you mean,” Eren forced a smile, clearing his throat and pushing his lunch to the side before continuing. “So, uh… what brings you here?”

Levi was a man of few words, paragraphs hidden behind the partitions of simple gestures, so when he let out a sigh and his eyes caught the classroom lights at a certain angle, Eren swallowed out of uneasiness.

“Eren,” (His first name? What?) “don’t resent me for this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the fourth-grade teacher’s breathing grew heavy.

“You’ve been taken off of the team for creating the mock exams.”

Eren only blinked slowly, letting a beat of silence pass so he could process the sentence. “What?”

Levi was standing in front of the desk now, hands in his pockets and demeanor the slightest uncomfortable as he continued. “You were absent during last Wednesday’s meeting when we reviewed the draft you submitted, so you’ve been moved off the team.”

“I don’t think I understand,” he scoffed. “I called in because of family-related issues. You assured me over the phone that it’d be okay if I wasn’t present.”

“That was before we actually had the meeting, though. Things change, Mr. Yeager,” and the man grew distant, Eren clenching his jaw with each word his authority spoke. “Ms. Dreyse filled your spot to represent fourth grade, and she did a great job. She’ll be taking your position.”

“ _Hitch?_ ” Eren noticed his voice was too harsh, too casual of a tone with his superior. He let out a short exhale in an attempt to ease his brewing frustration. “Her class is just next door. You should stick around for when electives wrap up so you can hear how rowdy her kids get. She’s a great person, sure, but she’s nowhere near fit to handle a class, let alone prepare an exam for—”

“Class control has nothing to do with exam preparation. Administration has already approved the arrangements—”

“But _I_ drafted that exam. You guys were reviewing _my_ questions!”

“I understand that, but last week, Ms. Dreyse was the one who was present, and she was helpful, not you.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“Please sit down.” Levi, startled, took a step backward, and Eren glanced down to see he was standing, hands flat on his desk as he towered over the principal. He licked his lips, clenching his jaw once more before taking a seat, a murmured apology hardly audible from the fourth-grade teacher.

“I asked that you didn’t resent me, and… you should know better than to use that language on campus whether children are present or not,” he continued, dull blues drifting to the carpeted floor. Eren noticed the man’s stature tense up, a deep exhale escape him before the room fell subject to silence.

“Will I at least get paid for the hours I dedicated towards the project?”

“That’s…” The man’s voice trailed off, a painful lull present as he articulated through the right words to speak. “To be determined. The school’s budget is still…”

He nodded his head. “I see.”

“Your understanding is appreciated, Mr. Yeager,” was what escaped the principal as he left the classroom, though his dull blues expressed a sincere apology.

…

Mikasa was humming a tune in the kitchen, rosy as she side-stepped along the tile to gather materials for dinner. She was in a good mood today, jubilation present in her spirit from the moment she woke up. Perhaps it was because she woke up before Eren before he left for work that morning.

Oh, how simple of a thing it was, to be gifted the opportunity of running her fingers through disheveled hair as the sun painted itself along his features—the light dripping along his jawline and trickling down his neck to grace his Adam’s apple, his collar bones. And when he let out a groan, when he grimaced at her for waking him up too early, she could only smile. Even hours later, she could clearly see the way his eyes fluttered open in the spilling sun, irides like stained glass as fragments of jade, turquoise, and emerald reflected amidst morning light.

He was on her mind that day, the memory of his gravelly morning voice and stained glass eyes filling her with excitement for when he would return home from work, for when she could experience the real version of that voice and those eyes, not just memories.

By the time she was running chicken under slow tap water to defrost, she heard the front door open and close. As footsteps grew closer behind her, Mikasa felt her heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” her voice sang, looking over her shoulder to see a tired man, the bags underneath his eyes much more striking than his green. She softly frowned, turning around from the kitchen counter to face him.

He blinked for a moment, settling at the dinner table to slump into a chair before letting out an exaggerated sigh. Mikasa’s mouth turned to the shape of a small _o_ , staring at her husband with knitted brows before clearing her throat to catch his attention. He was stagnant in zoning out.

She bit her bottom lip, spinning around to check if the meat was defrosted yet. “I, uh… I figured I would make chicken and rice for dinner. Nothing too special, but I know you like it, so—”

“Hmm?” He lifted his head, and Mikasa let out a huff, the slightest irritated.

Her voice was more stern this time around. “I’m making chicken and rice for dinner.”

“Oh, thanks.” He mumbled.

She took in a deep breath, stopping the tap water to lift the white meat out of the sink. She was hesitant to continue the conversation. “Was work okay?”

He let out a sarcastic chuckle, and Mikasa cringed at the sound, a dispute _barely_ at the cusp of the horizon. She hated whenever he was in a bad mood, for the puppeteer known as Anger would use strings of apathy and passive aggression to control Eren.

“They took me off the team for the exam.”

She felt her brows knit together, slowly grabbing a cutting board and a kitchen knife. “Why’s that?”

A scoff. “‘Cause I stayed home last week, that’s why.”

She felt a pang of guilt resonate throughout her. “Oh…” was all she could say.

“Yeah, _‘oh,’_ ” he mimicked, and Mikasa clenched her jaw as she moved the chicken to the cutting board, determined to focus on _that_ instead of _him_.

“Well, they’re idiots for making that choice.” she mused for a moment, cutting away at the excess fat on the chicken breast before conjuring up reassurance and comfort. “I’m really sorry, sweetheart. This shouldn’t have happened.”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” he repeated, shrugging as he stared at the kitchen table. She could _just barely_ hear his next sentence: “If you didn’t get your period…”

She set the knife down on the counter, spinning around to face her husband, biting her bottom lip in an attempt to maintain a cool composure. As she did so, Mikasa swore she could hear the pitter-patter of little feet.

He looked up from the table slowly, eyes distant for a brief moment before he gazed back down.

“You think I wanted to get my period, Eren?”

“I’m—”

“Do you want me to apologize for that?”

“No. No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

She pursed her lips, noticing how her arms had crossed. Mikasa let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers.

“I don’t mean to take my anger out on you. That was an asshole move of me, I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere.

Mikasa could still hear those little feet running around her, each step they took serving as a straw that piled onto her back. She spun on her heel to face the counter again, grabbing the knife to cut away at excess fat on the chicken breast. “It’s… fine. I guess. Can we just focus on getting dinner together?”

“Are you sure it’s fine?”

“Yes. Let’s just leave it, Eren.”

There was a pause.

“Are you _sure_ it’s fine?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I said to just leave it."

He was standing behind her now, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Well, you seem bothered by _something_.” He gingerly placed his hands on her waist. “What is it?”

She only shook her head, diligently focussing on the chicken.

“Mikasa, talk to me.” He placed a kiss on the back of her head, stubborn in hoping that his affection and charm would ease how tense she was.

But she kept her composure, the minimal task of preparing dinner the biggest concern on her mind. “Don’t worry about it.”

When she spoke those words, she swore she heard the pitter-patter of little feet again. The straws were heavy, burdensome.

“Well, now I’m worried about it.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

_Little feet that would roam about in her dreams._

“You’re fibbing. It’s obviously something.”

“It’s dumb.”

_Dreams where she would hold her own bundle of life._

“It’s not dumb if it’s bothering you."

“Eren, please. Not right now.”

_And little hands._

“Sweetheart, please tell me what’s up.”

_Little hands that would curl around her thumb._

“I said not right now.”

_And those sweet voices._

“If it’s because I got upset at you…”

_Sweet voices that would call out to her._

“It’s not that.”

_To find security in her arms_

“I really, really am sorr—”

“I said it’s not that!”

The pitter-pattering disappeared, and her back had been broken.

Both Mikasa and Eren were startled when she shouted, the knife now out of her hand and stabbed into the wooden cutting board. She blinked, processing the sudden outburst and closing her eyes to take a few deep breaths.

“No, it’s not that.” Her voice was much softer now, and she looked up at Eren for a brief moment to stare intently at his disheveled hair. “It’s… it’s what I’m usually upset about.”

It was his turn to be quiet now, his lips slightly pursed as he stared at his feet. And she didn’t blame him—what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say?

“See?” Mikasa continued, hesitant to grab the handle of the kitchen knife and continue cutting away at the chicken breast. She prayed her mind would go blank as she prepared the food, that their conversation would fizzle out into nothing. “I told you: it’s nothing worth talking about.”

_“‘Nothing worth talking about,’”_ Eren murmured, voice hardly audible as he walked away from the kitchen to sit back down at the table. Even though her ears hardly picked up the words, they most definitely picked up the attitude he had.

She shrugged, biting her bottom lip in an attempt of keeping her composure. She was supposed to be making a meal for Eren out of appreciation, not a meal birthed from argumentation. “It’s not.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

And _there_ he was: the apathetic, passive-aggressive Eren she just couldn’t _stand_ whenever they argued. She refused to look at that version of him, stubbornly keeping her gaze on the knife, the chicken, and the cutting board.

What was she supposed to tell him? There was nothing she could say or do that would change her physic, no more tears she could cry that would act as fuel for her insides suddenly start working. She was nothing but an abandoned warehouse: destined to create life and yet the internal gears of her body were defiant to work. She was nothing but an antique machine—mechanical, cold, useless. She just had to accept that fact, had to come to face to face with her harsh reality.

She felt so guilty for dragging Eren into her mess, dragging him into the grief each menstruation cycle brought as she mourned the countless children that could’ve been but never were. And on top of _that_ guilt (as if it wasn’t enough), she couldn’t even enjoy their sex anymore without feeling grief. She couldn’t even distract herself with temporary, physical sensations when all that occupied her mind was how their sex was pointless, unprofitable. How _dare_ she rob him of something like that, making a beautiful act feel unrequited, one-sided.

But Mikasa just couldn’t help but feel so lonely—lonely when he was away at work, lonely when she wandered their small apartment to do chores, lonely when she woke up from dreams of a happy family. She couldn’t help but yearn for that small bundle of life she so desired, clutch so tightly onto the idea of recreating the green eyes she fell in love with.

There was a sigh, and a voice spoke: “Well if there’s anything I can do to help, you just let me know.”

“Eren,” her hands stopped moving, and Mikasa started to zone out as she stared at the cutting board. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“I’ve told you before,” she could tell he was trying to tame his attitude. “We could look into adoption.”

“We’ve talked about that already. There’s no way we could afford it, and the system is too corrupt.”

“Foster care, then.”

“We’ve already talked about why that wouldn’t work, either.”

“Then what is it you want?”

“I… don’t know."

“Well,” a crude chuckle fell from his mouth, and Mikasa cringed at the sound. “I guess that’s that, then!”

“Eren, please don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

She closed her eyes. “ _This_."

There was a pause.

“I just don’t know what you expect from me.”

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

“Well, it seems like every option I give you isn’t good enough.”

“What other options are there outside of losing money?”

“We’re going to lose money no matter what we choose to do.” And he jeered again. “Why don’t I go and fuck some random girl so I can bring you home a baby. That sound good?”

“Oh, _real_ mature, Eren,” she set the knife down to spin around, eyebrows knitted together.

He shook his head, his jaw visibly clenched in frustration. “Well, when you figure out what it is you want, you let me know.”

Mikasa’s voice began to rise, all thoughts of remaining collected and stoic thrown out the window. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”

He stood up from the table. “Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do!”

“I don’t expect you to _do_ anything! We _can’t_ do anything.”

“ _Stop_ saying that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No!” He laughed, shaking his head as he spoke. “No, it’s _not_ the truth!”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it’s n—”

“We can’t have kids, Eren!”

Her words seemed to echo throughout the apartment, the world falling still as the couple stood in their kitchen, the air growing heavy in anticipation. The man only stood, his mouth clamped shut as his eyes burned into her.

“We can’t have kids, Eren,” she repeated, this time her voice much, _much_ weaker than she intended it to be. She swallowed, eyes darting around the kitchen to stare at a scratch on the kitchen table, a stain on the floor, a loose hair, _any_ small detail to distract herself from the tears she started to feel. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“That’s not true,” his voice mirrored hers, and Mikasa gingerly looked up to see glossy greens. “There has to be another way we—”

“I’m so tired.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hopeful that the saltwater would just _go away_. “I’m so tired of trying.”

But he scoffed and gave a lazy shrug, the sound of his arms hitting the sides of his legs audible. “So you’re just going to give up on our family, then?”

“ _What_ family?”

“ _This_ family.” Eren used his index to point at the space in-between them. “Unless I’m not enough for you now.”

“No, of course you’re enough—”

“Really? ‘Cause it sounds like you’d be much happier if there was a kid running around.”

“Eren, you _know_ that’s not true,” and that’s when the water started to fall, but Mikasa only allowed three to four tears slip as she spoke. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Eren—”

“What _do_ you mean, Mikasa?”

She didn’t know what words to speak, how to articulate through the emotions she didn’t understand. All she understood was desire: the desire to be the mother of a little boy or little girl. That was all she wanted, _all_ she wanted.

And her voice was so, _so_ shaky as she struggled to continue the conversation. “I… I don’t know. I’m just upset, okay?”

“Yeah, no shit.” He rolled his eyes, sitting back down.

“You know what?” It was Mikasa’s turn to let out a sarcastic titter now, the tears that took refuge in her eyes disappearing. “Just forget it.”

But one of Eren’s strongest qualities was how headstrong, how stubborn he was. “No, we’re going to fight over this and work it out.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes to pinch the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “Eren…”

“We _have_ to work through this.”

“This isn’t exactly something we can ‘work through.’”

“You don’t know that—”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“With what evidence?”

“Over a year’s worth of evidence!”

He was quiet again.

“We have been trying for over a year, Eren.” She fluttered her eyes open to see her husband standing in silence, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he stared at the floor. “There just isn’t a point, okay?”

His voice was soft. “That’s not true.”

“I can’t provide what it is we want.”

“Stop it.”

“We should just give up.”

“No, we _can’t_ give up.”

“Well,” she spun around on her heel to focus back on the chicken she had abandoned. She lifted her hand to grab the knife to cut away at chicken fat again. Mikasa noticed that she was shaking. “I’ve already given up.”

And it was quiet, _painfully_ silent until she heard her husband shuffle behind her. “I need some fresh air,” he murmured, the sound of their front door slamming shut.

She couldn’t help but think of those little feet, hear them run around her in circles. Mikasa set the knife down, slumping to press her forehead against the kitchen counter and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really quick just felt like I needed to address this: Levi isn't intended to be painted in a bad light here. Working in education is difficult, especially with how....bad the system currently is. He's just trying to do his job ok jkdlfdj


	3. Saccharine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn’t intend for this update to take so long, so thank you everyone for the patience! this chapter took a looot out of me, so i’m hoping the wait was worth it agh. real quick: huge thanks to Kaekiro for helping me work through a scene in this—you’re a superhero, sel. if you haven’t already checked out her writing, what the hell are you doing?! do it nooow. she really does have a way with words. anyway, pls enjoy ♡

Eren seemed to be under the impression that the faster he walked, the faster he would catch up to his train of thought. He took in a deep breath, silently praying to the night that she would overwhelm his lungs with her breath to overthrow the emotions that flooded and tightened his chest, to fill his mind with clean oxygen and not the memories of just a few minutes ago.

But every object the moonlight graced only remind Eren of his wife, and he saw her everywhere: the asphalt of the roads reminiscent of her hair, cracks in the sidewalk reminiscent of her brokenness, the hazy night sky reminiscent of the sadness that manifested itself in her.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the _left, right, left, right_ pattern of his feet as if the act of walking itself would carry him far away from his reality—the physical act of walking enough to rid the intangible, the misunderstanding, the _hurt_ that overwhelmed and consumed his mind.

Because she gave up.

She _gave up_.

The honey lips he had so sweetly kissed uttered words of bitterness. The saccharine taste of her that he quivered and _whimpered_ against spewed grief and mourning. The lips he was victorious in the act of love with had submitted to defeat.

Defeat.

She gave up.

Anger.

He was angry—full of spite and confusion and pain.

But perhaps this pain was his fault. Perhaps he shouldn’t have opened the door of their infertility, shouldn’t have brought up a conversation point he _knew_ made his wife upset.

But it made him upset too.

_God_ , he was just so hurt and confused and frustrated.

They weren’t arguing about the right things. No, no, no. They were supposed to argue over whether or not they’d do Santa Clause for Christmas. They were supposed to fight over whose turn it was to change diapers. They were supposed to fight over curfews, over discipline, over birthday gift ideas and the like.

And there should’ve been three, four, _five_ voices yelling at each other, not just two.

And those voices were supposed to be so gentle, so delicate as they claimed Eren the six-lettered-word he despised. They were supposed to have the slightest lisp when it came to pronouncing _s’s_ , and they were supposed to have missing teeth and messy hair and scrapes on their knees.

And it was all so unfair because he _wanted_ to hear that six-lettered-word—no, he wanted to six _words_ whispered from the woman he loved, jubilated tears in her eyes as she would say, _“You’re going to be a dad.”_

He wanted to redefine what fatherhood meant to him. He wanted to avenge the countless, abandoned nights a ten-year-old boy undeservingly endured. He wanted to hear his creation— _their_ creation—cry out for its mother’s help when Eren would attack the child with endless tickles. That was all he wanted, _all_ he wanted.

It was all so cruel, so unfair, so _wrong_.

He took in a deep breath, begging to the night to clear his mind with her oxygen, that the stars, fuzzy and trapped in a light-polluted haze, would guide him out of the rut his family was stuck in—that _their_ family fell to the bottom of.

Angry.

Frustrated.

_Hurt._

When Eren returned to his apartment that night, the silhouette of a sleeping woman was visible in a dark home. He was hesitant to lift the comforter, reluctant to lie next to the woman he loved more than anything.

And he stopped himself from wishing her goodnight, stopped the arms that twitched to wrap around her frame and bring her close, stopped the urge to kiss her honey lips in an attempt to take away the agony that plagued her sweetness.

Instead, he turned his back to her and closed his eyes.

Eren begged the night to let exhaustion (whether it be physical or emotional) take over his body, but as the hours ticked on, she didn’t seem to listen.

…

She felt him come home that night—felt him tentatively settle in bed and felt how stiff he was when he turned his back to her.

She understood his tensity. Mikasa couldn’t sleep either.

And she had to stop herself from placing a hand on his shoulder so that he may face her. She had to stop herself from embracing him, stop the urge to place her fingertips on his faded back muscles and weep against his chest, tears flourishing a garden of reconciliation against his bare skin.

How contradicting of a thing it was: the need to avoid her husband entirely accompanied by the need to talk through their confrontation, to hold each other close so that each breath they drew and each touch they exchanged whispered the words, _“Despite all of this, I still love you.”_

Her avoidance of her husband didn’t disappear the next morning either. She was still when she woke up to the sound of running shower water, still when she heard him shuffle around the apartment in preparation for work, still when she heard cluttering dishes in the kitchen, still when she noticed he forgot to brew himself coffee.

She was still—so, _so_ still—when she felt him hover over her. A small kiss was planted on her forehead, the murmured and gravelly hush of, _“I’ll see you later,”_ left lingering in her ear until she heard the front door open and close shut.

Once positive Eren had left the complex, Mikasa lifted her head from the pillow, her fingers delicate to run through her hair and untangle the subtle knots of night. The lack of sleep left her exhausted, and she rubbed her eyes as if the act would alleviate her fatigue.

Mikasa allowed herself a soft smile. Her husband would’ve definitely made fun of her, his fingers delicate to pick out the crust at the corner of her eyes and fix her hair so it was tucked properly behind her ears. He’d say something snarky, something teasingly sarcastic like, _“Go back to sleep. I’m mad at you, remember?”_ or _“You’re so ugly when you first wake up.”_

The thought inspired Mikasa to let out a soft laugh, but when her eyes fluttered open, her smile was quick to fade once reminded she was, once again, entirely alone. There were no snarky comments or delicate fingers to combat her inevitable isolation.

Slowly, she sat up, basking in the emptiness of the apartment, the sound of a subtle breeze coming from an adjacent window. Sunlight graced an empty bed, an empty kitchen, an empty living room, an empty home. With an absent mind, Mikasa placed a hand on her stomach.

Empty.

Alone.

Her eyes drifted to the nightstand adjacent to her, the sun bouncing off a phone’s screen just enough to catch her eye. With hesitance, _hesitance_ , Mikasa picked up the device.

…

The third-grade teacher let out a laugh, an even mixture of disbelief and humor in his words. “They took you off the team?”

Eren had made two mistakes that morning: forgetting to make coffee and remembering to make his lunch. The former felt torturous, a notable headache wrecking his at his brain as hands jittered to massage his temples, and his headache wasn’t alleviated in the slightest since Eren and Jean were both asked to supervise recess that afternoon. The perpetual yells and screams of his students on slides and swingsets only spiked his headache even further.

The latter mistake was just annoying. He had never been the best at cooking, even when it came to a simple sandwich. He was too heavy-handed with the amount of peanut-butter he used, and the paste would stick to the roof and sides of his mouth with each bite of sandwich Eren took (seriously, it was like he spread an entire jar on the bread).

“Yeah,” Eren choked, tongue massaging through layers of peanut butter. His eyes darted along the playground, watching his students soak up each and every second of the outside world before they were confined inside school walls once again.

Jean let out another laugh, crossing his arms to lean against the wall of the school. “Good,” he murmured. “You do way too much, anyway.”

Perhaps it was the peanut-butter sticking at the roof of his mouth, or maybe it was a scream coming from the playground that spiked his headache, but Eren gave a quick roll of his eyes to snap, “Oh, what do _you_ know, Jean?”

“A whole lot, Eren,” the man returned, and Eren didn’t realize how rude he sounded until his tone was mimicked back by the golden eyes. “I know how shitty it is to be a teacher: kids can be jerks, parents are _definitely_ jerks, and to top it all off, we don’t have an administration that backs us up half the time.”

Taken aback, the fourth-grade teacher only blinked. A distant scream was heard from the playground.

“So yes, I _do_ know,” Jean finished.

There was a beat of silence before Eren’s eyes dropped to the blacktop beneath his feet, before he murmured, “You shouldn’t use that language when kids are present.”

“You know I’m right.”

Hesitance. “So what if you’re right?”

“Mr. Yeager!” A third voice intruded, syllables laced with despair.

Eren’s eyes bolted up, the small frame of a blonde student running in his direction as little fists rubbed tears out of her soft blues. His brows knitted together in concern, peripheral vision picking up another student running behind her.

“Historia,” he kept his voice gentle, wary of making sure he didn’t encourage her hysterics with his own. “What’s the matter?”

Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, quick blinks fighting past a veil of saltwater as the young girl took note of her mentors. “Mr. Yeager… Mr. Kirschtein…”

“Historia!” A fourth voice came, this one belonging to a brunette braid. “I told you to leave them alone!”

“Woah, hold on, Ymir,” Jean began. “Let Historia speak.”

There was a pause, momentary silence filled with the sniffles and chokes of a young blonde as she tried to compose herself.

Eren knelt to the floor so he was eye-level with his student. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Just tell me what happened.”

She took in a deep breath, stammering as she pushed through tears. “Y-Ymir and I wanted… wanted to go—to go on the slide and she… she was mad I was a-ahead of her, so she… she pushed me!”

“I didn’t!” Ymir crossed her arms, puffing her cheeks out as she did so. “Mr. Yeager, Historia is lying.”

“N-no!” She only grew more hysterical. “S-She pushed me, and I fell to the bottom of the slide and got a cut and—”

“I did _not_ push you!”

“Yes, you _did!_ ”

“Stop lying, cry-baby!”

“Hey!” He didn’t mean to yell, nor did he mean to be sound so stern. “That’s _enough_.”

Eren stood up, briefly making eye-contact with Jean. The third-grade teacher only nodded his head, turning to face Historia with a soft smile. “You said you got a cut?”

“Yes,” she sniffled. “Right on my knee, Mr. Kirschtein.”

“Alright,” he began, gesturing with the wave of an arm to the heartbroken girl. “C’ mon, then. Let’s get you to the nurse.” 

It was quiet for a moment after the duo walked away, the sounds of recess echoing from the playground: the dribbles of basketballs, the squeaks of swing sets, the piercing laughter of children. Eren’s eyes were hard set on the student in front of him, her gaze averted to the side as she crossed her arms. 

He let out a sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Ymir, why’d you push her?”

She made eye contact with the teacher, shaking her head as brows knitted together. “I _didn’t_ push her!”

“Alright, I’ll give you two options,” he was too tired for her antics. “You can either admit what you did was wrong—”

“But I didn’t—”

He arched his brow, cutting the girl short.

“You can either admit what you did was wrong and _apologize_ ,” he paused for a moment, gaze set on Ymir, “or I can make a call home so you can tell your parents you didn’t push Historia.”

The young girl’s eyes darted to the blacktop for a moment, her lips pursed as she thought.

Eren took the time to observe the girl: notice the blotchiness of her cheeks that fought to contrast freckles, the unkempt hairs that stuck out of her braid sporadically, the bandaid that rested on her right elbow. She was a trouble maker, that was for sure—stacks of incident reports and various conversations with her former teachers were evidence enough.

To take a liking to Ymir was near taboo—to have faith in her was controversial because _“some kids just can’t learn discipline.”_

But Eren related to Ymir, perhaps a little too much. He saw himself in the stubborn strands of her hair, in the pout of her expression, in the ruddy cheeks that painted her skin. She was a wild card: stubborn, unpredictable, and independent. She was a trail-blazer who set a path and followed it to the end.

Ymir was unapologetically… _Ymir_. 

Eren related to her in that sense. Perhaps he related to her a little too much.

“Aren’t you guys…” he let out another sigh. “Aren’t you and Historia best friends?”

She only nodded her head.

“So why’d you push her?”

“I—”

“Ymir.”

She let out a huff, eyes darting in the direction to see her peers run amok on the playground, no slide or monkey bar left vacant. Her arms fell to her sides once another huff was expressed. “I wanted to go down the slide first, but she got in the way.”

“So you decided to hurt her because you couldn’t get what you wanted?”

Eren didn’t understand _why_ that sentence left a peculiar taste on his tongue, but it did.

The school bell rang, and Eren’s eyes darted up to watch dejected students leave their recess time to line up for lunch. He mused for a moment before returning his focus back to the freckled nine-year-old. “I want you to apologize to Historia by the end of the day.”

She grunted, arms flailing. “But Mr. Yeager—”

“You’re apologizing by the end of the day, and that’s final.”

Ymir had given him dirty looks throughout the rest of the day, pouting at her teacher during lunch, huffing at him during multiplication practices, mad-dogging him when he lectured the class on the differences between homonyms and homophones (he didn’t think it so easy to be intimidated by the sharp eyes of a nine-year-old girl).

Meanwhile, Historia was wary for the rest of the school day—a kitten bandage stuck to her kneecap as she’d tentatively sit next to Ymir during class, hesitant to engage during in group activities.

The hours dragged on until there were five minutes left of the school day ended, and Eren was seconds away from calling the brunette over to remind her of her task. She had left for the restroom, and he decided to remind her of her commitment once she returned with the bathroom pass.

The classroom door opened, and Eren looked up to see his student enter the classroom. It didn’t seem that her pout disappeared. She walked up to his desk with puffed cheeks, slamming the bathroom pass on his desk.

“Ymir—” he spoke lowly but was cut off once he noticed something was hidden in the brunette’s grip.

She trotted to Historia’s desk, the blonde on her tip-toes to place notebooks in her backpack. She was stopped once Ymir had cleared her throat, whose hand was strategically kept behind her back.

Eren kept his mouth in the shape of a small _o_ as he watched the two girls stare at one another in confusion. Ymir pouted further, eyes darting to the side as Historia stood in awkward hesitance.

She was… shy— _bashful_ even. It was a side of Ymir Eren had never seen before.

“I’m…” she began, brows furrowing together as she paused for a moment. “I’m sorry you cut your knee or whatever.”

Eren frowned, standing up from his desk to make an intervention. No, that was _not_ what he told her to apologize over. She was supposed to admit she was wrong—admit that she mishandled the situation and understand how she needed to take accountability for her actions. She needed to tell Historia that it was going to be okay, that she would never push her down like that ever again, no matter the emotions that bombarded Ymir’s heart. She needed to vow to protect Historia from ever cutting her knee again. She needed to—

“Ymir!” The blonde’s voice came, her soft blues brightening once two dandelions were presented to her.

Eren blinked, observing the weeds—er, _flowers_ , per se, the freckled nine-year-old held in front of her peer. One of them was yellow while the other was the type children blew wishes with (though most of the white floaties had already been blown off of the flower).

Historia let out another cry, wrapping her arms around Ymir as she thanked the girl for the simple, _simple_ flowers. 

“Hey! You’re going to crush the flowers, dummy,” the brunette exclaimed in response. Though she spoke dismissively, she still wrapped her arms around her friend with a nervous hibiscus painting her freckled cheeks.

Eren didn’t understand why that scene stuck with him as he dismissed his students once the final bell rang—when he ruffled Ymir’s hair and gave her a wink as she skipped away with Historia. It stuck with him as he stayed after to grade papers. It stayed with him as he locked up his classroom for the weekend. It stayed with him as he bid goodbye to his coworkers in the parking lot. It stuck with him when he started driving back to his apartment in a junky car, the glare of a setting sun blinding him.

And then he thought of a pair of honey lips, thought of chocolate browns he’s so easily get lost in.

Eren almost wanted to laugh at himself, chuckle at the idea of how only _he_ could take a situation between two students and relate it to himself. Sure, why not give his wife some hand-picked dandelions and hope that’ll suffice for their argument—surely that would solve their infertility. 

If only.

But as he drove with twilight blinding him, night crawling its way through the sky as shades of cherry blossom and lavender danced across the clouds, he couldn’t shake the idea of her out of his head.

He couldn’t help but think—think of how she fell asleep before him the night prior, how he was hesitant to watch moonlight paint itself along her broken features to reveal she had been crying _because of him_. He thought of the woman who was awake that morning, sly in “sleeping” as if her acting would spare him in knowing she was avoiding him. He thought of how she softened in the slightest after he planted a kiss on her forehead.

But something had caught itself in his throat, and Eren thought of cries in the kitchen that had followed the sound of a slamming door. The sounds echoed in his mind—the _slam!_ and then the cries, the _slam!_ and then the cries…

He grit his teeth, grip tightening around the steering wheel as he drove.

He had it all wrong, didn’t he? He hadn’t handled his situation with Mikasa correctly, hadn’t he? He let apathy and passive aggression take control of him, let those attitudes fight against and _yell_ at her, didn’t he?. When she needed him, needed his support and understanding, he had argued and _left_.

He had abandoned her when she needed him—just like that six-lettered word he hated.

He wasn’t supposed to be fighting against the father who had abandoned him as a child. No, no. He was supposed to be fighting for...  _her_.

He had abandoned her when she _needed_ him—when she needed _him_.

Eren parked the car, flinging a backpack full of folders and ungraded papers around his shoulder before he slowly walked to the staircase.

Hell, if little Ymir could apologize, then so could he.

As if the heart took control of his body, Eren ran, _ran_ in the direction of his apartment.

Because he changed his mind. He didn't want to hear six letters or words.  No, no. Eren wanted to  _say_  six words to the woman he loved.

He turned a sharp corner, nearly falling as he did so. Eren ran  up the staircase, out of breath as he tread along a never-ending hallway.

He wanted to cup her face in his hands, jubilated tears in her eyes as he whispered the words, _“I love you more than anything.”_ Yes, _jubilated_ tears, not tears of grief and hurt because he loved her— _God_ , he loved her.

Eren stumbled in the direction of his front door, feet tripping over one another in haste to see her—to grab her by the shoulders and pull her into a kiss where apologies would spill from his lips, where he would make _sure_ she knew he would _never_ abandon her.

There was a moment of hesitance, a calm before the storm when he stood in front of his apartment doorway. His eyes darted along the numberings, withered and worn from years of hospitality. What awaited behind those numbers was reconciliation— _hope_.

With a deep breath, he forced the door open, standing in a wide stance with his hand flat on the wood. Eren opened his mouth in fervor to proclaim the name he loved more than anything.

“Mika—”

But she wasn’t there.

Moonlight graced an empty bed, an empty kitchen, an empty living room, an empty home.

A small note awaited him on the kitchen table, and Eren shrugged his bag on the floor as he approached the paper.

_‘Out for dinner. Will be back later.’_

His breath caught in his throat for a moment as he read the script, brows knitting together as he processed the emotions that had risen and collapsed within him all at once.

How… anticlimactic.

Eren let out a sigh, taking a seat at the table to slump his forehead against the wood. Perhaps closing his eyes and resting for a few moments would suffice for her absence, but that didn’t seem to work in the slightest.


	4. Rapport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was going to cap this fic off at 4 chapters, but i'm extending it to 5....maybe 6 if i'm feeling up to it hnnng. sorry that this is a shorter chapter in comparison to the others, but regardless, i hope u enjoy. thank u sm for reading!♡

Mikasa stood in the parking lot of a plaza, arms tightly wrapped around her frame in an attempt to ward off the subtle yet bleak winds that nipped at her bones. She let out a huff, watching as her breath danced before her in a cloud. Spring’s weather was all too temperamental for her taste, the world indecisive in staying warm in the afternoon only to drop several degrees at moonrise. Walking several blocks to reach the plaza only left Mikasa feeling colder. 

Burying her face into a light scarf around her neck, the fabric much too thin to fight against the breath of nature, Mikasa’s eyes scanned several parking spaces for a single car, a single figure.

And then, in the distance, she caught movement: an extended arm waving in her direction as a bright smile surfaced on the face of a woman. With a deep inhale, Mikasa watched her breath dance in front of her once more before walking toward the smiling figure, greeting her with an embrace.

“Miki,” a voice came, withered in age and yet overflowing with warmth. “How are you, sweet girl?”

Mikasa pulled away from the embrace to stare at the woman in front of her. Her eyes danced along the sable strands of hair that tucked into a modest braid, the wrinkles that eroded along her complexion with the passage of time, the dark chocolate eyes that held endless hospitality within them.

Mikasa had quite resembled her mother. She had been told this several times before, yet she denied such an idea. Mikasa always argued she held a stronger resemblance of her father, claiming how the slope of her nose and the shape of her eyes were undoubtedly his, but many agreed that she took after Mrs. Ackerman the most. 

Perhaps Mikasa’s denial was a subtle act of humility on her part, for she thought her mother to be the most beautiful woman in the world. In her mind, holding even a fraction of her mother’s beauty would’ve been too, _too_ much of a blessing.

“I’m alright,” she softly smiled, stepping to the side as if to initiate walking further into the plaza. “Thanks for getting dinner with me.”

“Absolutely,” her mother smiled, holding open the door to a sushi restaurant as the two women walked inside. “Besides, free food is free food, right?”

Once seated after a somewhat awkward interaction with a young waiter, the two women caught up on this or that. Mikasa had always found herself to be more of a listener than a conversationalist, and she quietly sat in admiration as her mother gave life updates: how her father planned to retire soon, how her parents were considering downsizing into a smaller home, how they couldn’t decide between getting a cat or a dog.

And she had genuinely smiled over sushi rolls—had grinned as she received updates on her parents’ lives, let out a giggle when her mother struggled to break her chopsticks apart, felt happy to be in the company of someone she had admired so greatly.

A lull had eventually whittled its way into the conversation, Mikasa using her chopsticks to break ginger pieces into soy sauce. Her eyes watched the pieces float, watched them soak in the liquid to turn into deep shades of taupe.

“Alright, enough with the small talk,” her mother’s voice came, encouraging Mikasa to look up from her beloved soy sauce and ginger. The woman leaned forward to whisper, “What is it you needed to talk about?”

She let out a brief exhale through the nose. “What, I can’t want to spend time with you?”

“Guess not,” the woman laughed, leaning back into her chair. Wisps of hair fell out of her braid, the strands complementary to laugh-lines and warm irises. “If you wanted to hang out, you would’ve invited your father and Eren. You hardly ask for one-on-one time, Miki.”

Admittedly, she was caught off guard, the slightest embarrassed that she had been so transparent in spite of small talk and subtle giggles. Mikasa’s gaze fell, set in staring at soy sauce and ginger pieces once again.

Articulating through her thoughts, Mikasa contemplated pouring her heart out about the argument, considered talking about the pitter-pattering feet that haunted her, thought explaining the thorns that stuck in her hands and left her bleeding everywhere. But she only shrugged, settling on: “I still can’t get pregnant.”

It was silent, and Mikasa questioned if she should’ve explained further, opened up a little bit more about the hurt she felt and the loneliness that had plagued her afternoons.

“Well…” Rather awkwardly, her mother cleared her throat. “Have you been tracking your ovulation?”

She nodded her head.

With hesitance, the woman continued. “And you’re having—er, making sure your… _sex_ is according to that?”

“Mom,” Mikasa rolled her eyes. “We know what we’re doing.”

“I’m just making sure!”

“Well you don’t have to be weird about it,” she forced a laugh, shrugging to lean back in her chair as well. There was another pause, her demeanor shrinking as she continued. “It’s just… been hard.”

Well, _‘hard’_ was an understatement. It was emotionally difficult, physically impossible, mentally draining. And Mikasa had reached her end, had felt so tired of trying any longer. She was exhausted from the false hope each white stick carried, embarrassed when she called out her husband’s name as she sat fragile and broken and _shattered_ on the toilet, envious as her fingers traced the script of his students’ vocabulary quizzes.

And what she could never express to her mother was how selfish she felt in those nights when they’d try to grow a family—how empty she felt when he filled her, how weak she felt when he’d make love to her, how pathetic she’d feel when she’d sound her pain. Moan, groan, whimper, whine. It all hurt—every aspect of it hurt in spite of the disguise of temporary, physical sensations. 

Mikasa couldn’t help but feel responsible for being such a burden on Eren’s shoulders, for making their marriage much more complicated than it needed to be.

“You were an accident, y’ know.”

“ _Mom_ —”

“What? You were!” Her mother shook her head, chopsticks picking at nigiri as she continued. “Your father and I had been married for five years already before we had you. Hell, we never even talked about children—sure, we had a few conversations here and there, but they were more—how do I put it—along the lines of, _‘having kids would be fun, but we’ll focus on that when we get there.’_ And then one day I was feeling quite groggy, and I noticed my cycle was a few days late.” She giggled, taking a sip of water and smacking her lips before continuing. “Oh, _goodness!_ The panic that flooded my heart was overwhelming! I ran to the nearest store, bought some over-priced pregnancy tests, drank an insane amount of water so I could pee, and… sure enough, I was pregnant. I didn’t know… _how_ , exactly, your father would react to the news, but when I told him, he…”

And she let out an, _“Oh!”_ before she started to tear up. Mikasa’s hands scrambled, searching for a spare napkin to aid in the tears, but her mother only waved her hand dismissively as she sniffled.

“Oh, no. No, no. I’m okay,” she sighed, flattening her hand on her chest to take a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t mean to go off on a tangent, but I guess what I’m trying to… _hint_ at, at the very least, is… pregnancy and children are… scary. It’s entirely unexpected, emotionally exhausting, and even after the baby is born, you’ll miss sleep in a way you didn’t think possible.” She laughed again, Mikasa’s features softening at the sound. “But… when I told your father we were going to have a kid… that we _made life_ together, I slowly watched him transform into the most gentle, loving man in the whole world. I saw sides of him I didn’t know existed, watched him express his affection in ways I didn’t think possible… And when you were born I— _you_ changed our lives in ways unimaginable.”

Mikasa felt conflicted, a mixture of joy for her mother, comfort from her words, and envy of her parents’ experience settling inside of her as the story digested.

It was quiet again, Mikasa’s gaze still directed at soy sauce and ginger as she listened.

“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be, Miki,” a voice came, and it was so soft, so gentle. “But take joy in the fact that you and Eren have each other.”

She let out a titter, grabbing a chopstick to poke at a ginger piece. “I suppose.”

“Hey, look at me when I talk to you,” the woman spoke, and Mikasa had almost forgotten _who_ , exactly, she was conversing with. She looked up from her food to meet dark chocolate eyes. “Finding comfort in one another is what eases the pain. He loves you dearly—so, _so_ dearly, Mikasa, and I doubt he’d want you to feel alone in this. I’m flattered you sought me out for comfort, but in all honesty, I’m not the one you should be turning to.”

Mikasa didn’t understand _why_ such a simple notion resonated so deeply inside of her, but it did.

And she thought, thought a _lot_ as she finished dinner and asked her mother for a ride home. She thought of summer nights: how they’d slow dance in the kitchen as he led the melody, their tradition of watching the sunset and pointing out their favorite clouds, the countless mornings where they slept far too late into the afternoon. And she thought of how he made her feel, reminisced over the gaze in his eyes that pulled her in so intensely that green was the only color she seemed to know.

Bidding her mother goodbye once dropped off at her apartment complex, Mikasa was hesitant to walk in the direction of her apartment. Why she was hesitant, she didn’t know. She wasn’t necessarily… _afraid_ , per se, of seeing her husband. No, no. Just… nervous. 

But her mother’s words began to echo in her ear.

_“Take joy in the fact that you and Eren have each other.”_

And that’s when Mikasa realized she hadn’t been alone. This whole time Eren had been right beside her, doing his absolute best to ensure she was cared for and loved properly.

She was just too guarded. She had guarded her heart from the man who was supposed to protect and cherish it in the first place.

Turning a sharp corner, she shook her head, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

How silly of her, truly, for letting her loneliness intrude on how she viewed her husband. Whilst her emotions were entirely valid, she had just felt them for the wrong reasons. Eren wasn’t some poor man who just happened to stumble upon her broken journey. No, no. He was on this journey _with_ her. They were in it together, and he had made that _so evident_ in his countless efforts to help her.

Perhaps she had confused him, given him the idea that she needed help in the form of action, that they needed to _do_ something about their situation. All she needed him to do was… _be_. Be there for her, be with her, be the silly, head-strong boy she had fallen so hard for.

Mikasa’s feet were slow to walk up a staircase, eventually leading down a corridor. When she reached the front door of her apartment, there was a moment of hesitance, a calm before the storm. Her eyes darted along numberings, withered and worn from years of hospitality, and her fingers traced the numbers as a soft smile dug itself into her lips. What awaited behind the door was home— _her_ home.

She opened the door, and her home, her _everything_ sat at the kitchen table still dressed in his work clothes. He lifted his head from the table, an endearing, red circle, most likely from pressing his face into the wood, on the center of his forehead.

“Mikasa!”

She watched his eyes widen, watched his feet stumble over one another as he bumped his hip into the table, shocked to see her despite knowing she would come back.

“I—uh, I was just about to text you ‘cause I didn’t know wh-where you were at. I was gettin’ worried, y’ know?”

He scratched the back of his neck, letting out an awkward laugh as Mikasa closed the door behind her.

“Well, obviously you went to dinner—you left a note, duh—but it was getting late, so I-I didn’t know…”

His voice trailed off, and Mikasa only quietly watched as they took cautious steps towards one another.

He blinked quickly, swallowing as he pointed to dishes on the counter. “I tried making myself some dinner. It, uh, it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either.”

She only walked closer, a soft smile placing itself on her lips in response to his rambles.

“‘Cause I suck at cooking, y’ know. You’re much better at—at that.”

And eventually they stood in front of each other, Eren’s demeanor quite awkward as he cleared his throat.

“So, uh, I… I thought a lot about last night, and—”

“I love you.”

Caught off guard, he blinked for a few moments before echoing back, “I-I love you, too.”

“More than you understand.”

“I… where is this coming from? Are you okay?”

And Mikasa only smiled at him, amusing herself in his stammers as he spoke incomprehensible, broken sentences that switched between the subjects of their argument the night prior and some fight two students in his class had that morning.

As he rambled, her eyes danced around his features, and butterflies she had long forgotten fluttered about in her stomach for the first time in what felt like ages. She couldn’t help but lose herself in his stained glass eyes, in the subtle curls his hair formed, in the hibiscus that began to flower on his cheeks. She couldn’t believe that he was hers, that no other woman who had ever existed would see him in such a state.

When he was mid-sentence, she grabbed him by the tie around his neck, pulling him close until their lips met.

And he felt so soft against her mouth, felt so _right_ against her lips as if she was made to taste him and _only_ him.

His arms found their way around her frame, a hand landing on her upper back as the other lost itself in her hair. He let out a soft chuckle as he pulled away, eyes looking at the floor before flickering back up at to his wife. “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore.”

Bravely, finding solace in his arms, Mikasa mustered the strength to decide, “I haven’t given up.”

When the whisper escaped her lips, Eren’s brows slowly knit together, his features softening before her. She didn’t understand the expression, and she wondered if the sudden change in conversation was too sudden, too heavy of a topic to bring up since it ended so poorly the last time.

But then he kissed her.

In fervor, in desperation, in _urgency_ , he kissed her. 

Hands cupping her face, he immersed her lips with a passion she had almost forgotten he carried, a fire within him overwhelming and inundating as he held her closer and nearer and _right_ where he wanted—no, _needed_ her to be.

She tried to separate so she might catch a breath amid his hunger, but he only pulled her closer, just kissed her deeper and _deeper_ as she panted against his lips. It wasn’t until she hummed, until she tapped his shoulder five separate times that he separated the kiss, staring intently into her eyes. They were both a panting mess, an obscene string of saliva connecting the two.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

But she only shook her head, tears stinging in her eyes as she tugged on his tie to pull him to her once again. His kisses littered apologies against her skin, the quiver of his lips sorry for his attitude, the ambition of his hands sincere in getting it right in the future, the forming love bite on her neck regretful of his abandonment. And each unbutton of his shirt only sent him reassurance: that she forgave him, that she was in the wrong as well, that they would be okay.

His shirt and tie met the floor, and her hands sat flat on his chest as their kisses continued, feet stumbling to find the couch or the bed or _anything_ so they could get closer and closer and _closer_. 

Abruptly, he fell backward, landing on white bedsheets as Mikasa fell with him. Their teeth clacked, Eren groaning as his hand found the small of her back to flip her onto the bed. She laid there, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth found her neck and his hands found her breasts, clumsy in unbuttoning her blouse to flush her skin further and worship her body louder.

He was urgent—so, _so_ urgent—in his efforts to see her entirely, and eventually her blouse met the ground and his mouth met her breasts soon after. She gasped as his tongue lapped against her complexion, the zeal of it all so intense, so titillating. He had always been so overwhelmingly passionate, so fierce when it came these moments of intimacy.

Mikasa sat propped herself up on her elbows, and Eren blinked, confused for a moment as his hands paused in fiddling with the clasp of her bra.

“Do you not want to…” His voice trailed off, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

Mikasa shrugged, feeling rouge warm her cheeks. She was bashful. “I… do.”

“So why’d you—”

“I just…” She bit her bottom lip, nostalgic thoughts of their first time suddenly feeling familiar. “Got nervous, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He let out a soft chuckle, amused, perhaps, that his wife, who he had slept with almost nightly, had grown bashful over his actions.

She cleared her throat, voice shy. “We can keep going if you want.”

He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment as he tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. After a bit of quiet, he fell on the bed so his head met the pillows, grabbing Mikasa and pulling her to his chest. He placed a kiss on the crown of her head as she was cuddled against him. “Can... can we just stay like this?”

Mikasa let out a hum, fluttering her eyes shut to tune into the racing heartbeat underneath her ear. She couldn’t remember the last time they rested like this, where they tangled themselves into each other’s arms as a form of endearment, as a _‘just because.’_ It seemed each moment they shared as of late consisted of complaining over life or trying to conceive a child. It would’ve been nice to just… _be_ , for once—where her body didn’t serve only as a warehouse and his, nothing but the supplier.

If they could grow from the former mindset, learn to how properly love their bodies again after jarring battles against infertile soil and reckless roses they sowed, maybe they could heal from all this pain. Maybe their sex, their love, their marriage would mean more than _just_ having kids again.

“Yeah,” she breathed, voice soft for only his ears to pick up despite being the only two people in the apartment. “This is nice.”

And they sat quietly for a time, Eren’s fingers delicate to stroke through Mikasa’s hair as he peppered light kisses on her face. And she felt safe and complete and _okay_. 

They laid blissfully intertwined until the sun rose the next morning.


	5. Serenity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay SOO UH first of all wanna thank y’all for the overwhelmingly loving feedback left on the last chapter, and also i want to thank everyone for their grace, patience, and support through the sporadicalness that has been updating/configuring this story (i legit feel like a chicken running around w its head cut off). i was planning on making this 5 chs long and ending w a reeeally lengthy, final chapter, but after some contemplation, this is going to end at 6 chapters long. nonetheless, thank you guys for the endless support and encouragement—i feel so uplifted by and grateful for y’all!!!:) i hope u enjoy

Both parties seemed to struggle when it came to working toward the direction of change.

Hiking mountains of turmoil, treading through rivers of grief. Healing was an adventure that often took the form of struggle rather than progression: a flowering bruise that convinced the couple they were spiraling into defeat rather than blossoming with growth. It was hard to declare intangible change, to mend the inner workings of a relationship. The duo shared the same worry: that they would decide to change in their hearts yet do nothing about it with their actions. To feel more intensely than they acted (it seemed either person felt more than enough for the both of them in the first place).

When they had awoken from the night of their reconciliation, where Eren had awful morning breath and cursed his former self for sleeping in jeans, things _felt_ different, at the very least. The air was lifted of a certain weight, and Saturday never felt so rejuvenating. He recalled the night before, recalled the acolyte who planted a devotion of rapport against his lips—how she whispered words of redemption and shivered in response to his touch to promise, promise that they would be okay in the end.

And came Sunday, where Mikasa was confident to suggest they were intimate without the white sticks, suggesting how the night would be _“just like the old days again.”_ That had to work in easing the pain—right? Maybe it was ambition, hope, or just a basic, primal drive that led to Eren’s agreement, where they were hurried under the covers to mark each other with proclamations of love. To mark each other in defiance of their bodies with their bodies.

But curiosity is suicide, and Monday morning left Mikasa with a silk ball and chain around her ankles, a shaky, white stick the weapon she had endured countless scars from.

The next step only seemed inevitable—to suggest total abstinence and to take a break from an act that carried more hurt than meaning. Mikasa seemed to adapt to the idea quite easily, though Eren had much more trouble with the suggestion. He’d never admit to being needy, for the ache of her body and touch wasn’t something he thought himself docile to, yet a week or so into the agreement proved otherwise. It turned out Eren was the type to get moody and grumpy without sex, and Mikasa found his complaints of, _“I just want to fuck you, goddammit!”_ oddly endearing.

So little steps, little things were what the couple worked with. Not to be chaotic and reckless amid their love, nor to abstain from one another, but rather to focus on the details of their relationship. Quality time was the medicine they used. They were quick to learn that they simply needed one another, to sit and _be_.

For far too long had both parties isolated themselves, festering and thriving in their own pains and stresses: Eren caught up in his self-expectations of fatherhood, Mikasa at war with herself. They couldn’t force two isolated pieces to conjoin. That was too abrupt, too forceful, like magnets that would retract immediately once attempted to meet. They needed to build bridges amid the hurt, to hold one another’s hands and openly admit, _“This is what I’m struggling with, and this is how you can help me.”_

So they focused on little things: surprise visits at work, lunch dates, grocery shopping. Mikasa even held back on finishing all her chores until Eren came home from work so they might share frustrations over folding fitted sheets, and he’d playfully splash her with dishwater as they cleaned the kitchen (though the latter annoyed Mikasa quite a bit).

Little things.

Silent conversations through eye contact: when it was early morning and she would gently squeeze his arm as a way to ask him to pull her closer. How he’d get lost in her features whenever he’d tuck strands of hair behind her ear, or how she’d purposely wake up early to start his coffee.

Little, little things.

It was the sighs that rested in-between minutes of noise that provided the most healing.

And the little things seemed to work, temporary distractions as the couple focussed on the details of each other rather than the bigger picture of their struggles. Eren started to grow more lively, stresses slowly taken out of the bags underneath his eyes each day. Mikasa let herself feel more than just pain, forced herself to pierce through the veil of numb dwelling so that she might smile again, might look at her husband and feel captivated, not guilty.

It was reminiscent of when they first started dating, where she tamed the passion he exuded and, in turn, he invited her to embrace her capability. He didn’t have to be solely responsible for their family, and she didn’t have to feel like a failure to their family. They were victorious because of one another, not because of their production. Neither of them held the answers to their circumstances: Mikasa couldn’t find the answers within Eren just as he couldn’t find them in her. So they built solutions, created structures and miracles of growth and rebirth.

Both parties seemed to struggle when it came to working toward the direction of change, but they struggled together. They fought together.

Little things.

Minuscule, delicate, little things amounting to slow, subtle, monumental change.

And neither seemed to remember their circumstances for a time. The both of them seemed abstinent from their stresses until the evening of his birthday arrived.

She fumbled with his belt, a smirk digging itself into kiss-swollen lips as she pecked at his mouth and his neck and his chest. His cheeks flowered red from alcohol, and Eren let out a sleazy chuckle.

“You’ve had too much wine.”

“And you haven’t had enough,” she was confident, arms crossing to grab the ends of her sweater to lousily pull the fabric up and over her head. Eren chuckled at the static of her hair, how tenacious, chocolate strands seemed to defy gravity. But she had him distracted when she straddled him on the bed, when she placed her index on the center of his sternum to slowly push him backward. And she was teasing, so drunk in her flaunting of a lace bra he’d never seen before.

“That’s new.”

A smile. “Happy birthday.”

“Ah, I see,” he nodded his head, fingers lifting to ghost the curves of her midriff. “So Target didn’t have anything?”

Playfully, she shook her shoulders. “They had this.”

A smirk. “We’re at  _that_  point in our marriage now, are we?”

Without words, she cocked her head to the side, once static strands elegant to fall in front of and frame her face. A fire in her eyes told him exactly where this was headed. She guided his hand to cup the swell of her breast, and she bit her bottom lip in anticipation.

“I’m not complainin’,” he told her, voice low for her—and only her—to hear.

And a bra later, they were nothing but two silhouettes painting shadows against a wall, their apartment filled with lewd, embarrassing noises as she writhed underneath him and as his voice was hoarse to guide them through the expanses of their bodies. As he encouraged her to gasp and pant heavy breaths against his lips. And of course, as if almost ritualistic, came the rise and fall, where he finished with a final thrust and she pulled at the curls of his hair until his eyes were hazy to blink once, twice, three times…

Until the morning came.

The flush of a toilet echoed, and Eren ran his fingers through his hair, perverted in watching his wife waddle from the bathroom to the bed. He smirked at the sex-induced pink that still flowered her chest, the sway of her hips as she walked, that small diamond of light separating her thighs from her core taunting at him. His eyes were stuck on her, and she knew. She sent a soft smile, to which he returned a slow blink. Mikasa crawled underneath the sheets, confiding in his arms as they basked in the Sunday light that spilled through the window.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You’re hot,” he mumbled into her hair, rough syllables lost within strands of chocolate.

A kiss was planted in the middle of his sternum as she was hesitant to mumble back, “You were rougher than usual.”

“Oh?” He pulled back, concern painted on his face. “I was?”

“Yeah,” she let out a bashful laugh. “I, uh… _yeah_.”

And maybe his eyebrows furrowed a certain way or he pouted absentmindedly because she let out a breathy giggle, placing a chaste kiss on his lips and further settling in his arms.

“I didn’t say I disliked it, silly.”

Flattered, his mouth took the shape of a small _o_ before he cleared his throat, ignoring how his cheeks rose in temperature to boast, “Well, of course you did.”

She arched a brow.

He stammered. “‘Cause—’cause why else would you… marry me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she took a moment to think. “Maybe ’cause I fell in love with your personality, or your heart, or somethin’ like that.”

“C’ mon now,” he sent her a half-smile. “That’s just cliché.”

Mikasa shrugged a shoulder. “Ah, you’re right. Our awful first time was _really_ what persuaded me to the alter.”

“Oh, shut up,” he rolled his eyes, the couple laying in each other’s arms to comfortably laugh at a memory only they shared. And it fell quiet for a moment, the distant chirp of birds and honks of cars just outside the window. But Eren found himself recalling the flush of the toilet he had awoken to, falling into an old habit, an old curiosity that would forever irk in him. He was hesitant to begin in asking, “Did you…”

It took her a moment to understand his shift in tone. When she did, Mikasa only nodded her head.

Hesitance. “And...?”

There was a sad smile, and though it wasn’t unexpected, it broke him regardless. “Same as usual.”

And of course it was the same as usual. Eren almost found it humorous how a small part of him thought that accepting reality and working towards change would be the deciding factor of their fruitfulness. That if he stopped worrying about the topic so heavily, then it would interrupt him unexpectedly. How optimistic—pathetically hopeful and optimistic—for him to think in such a way.

Mikasa seemed to understand his thoughts, somehow read the disappointment that pooled within him as if her fingers were tracing the script of a novel riddled with his emotions, not tracing delicate circles on his chest.

And he didn’t understand how she pulled him even closer than they already were, how her breath felt soft against his skin to declare, “It’ll be okay.”

“You think so?” Eren couldn’t tell if he was asking for her opinion or asking for her to provide reassurance.

There was a pause before he felt her eyelashes flutter shut against his chest. “I know so.”

…

Mikasa sat on the seat of the toilet, one leg tucked against her chest as the other rested on the tile floor. The bathroom reeked of nail polish, the pitter-patter of water crashing against mosaic tile evident as her husband showered.

Eren was going on about his day at work, unveiling stories of how his students struggled to understand long division. He went on about how he discovered the best way to help his students understand the concept was to pretend the number inside the division bracket was caught in a house fire, while the number outside the bracket was a fireman trying to rescue the dividend. Endearing, Mikasa thought.

She could only smile to herself, painting her toenails a soft shade of pink as she listened to him babble on about the smallest details of his day—his frustrations, passing conversations, moments of laughter. It seemed she could sit and listen to him ramble for hours on end, how he’d paint the walls of her heart with endless stories as if to overwrite the lonely mornings she’d endure.

_Thunk!_

Something fell in the shower, the sound startling Mikasa so much so that it caused her to jump and miss the nail she was painting. A groan had interrupted Eren mid-sentence, and she looked up to watch the silhouette of her husband bend forward to grab a bottle (presumably shampoo).

“You startled me,” she mumbled, watching as his silhouette stood upright once more behind the frosted shower glass.

“My bad,” he returned, “but, hey! I have a bit of good news for you.”

“And that would be?”

The opaque glass slid the slightest open, and Mikasa watched her husband’s head pop out from the crack. His hair was slicked back from the water, two random strands matted against his forehead. He wore a boyish smile, eyebrows lifted and smile lines evident as his voice sang: “Rumor has it someone at work is selling a car.”

“You mean like an actual, functional car?” Mikasa arched a brow. “Eren, I’m afraid that’s a little too luxurious for us.”

He rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, disappearing behind the opaque glass once more. “Jean mentioned Armin’s selling his old car—said it’s a good deal. I thought I’d mention it to you first before taking up the offer.”

She pursed her lips for a moment to think, gaze dropping to focus on the splattered nail polish on her toe. Using the nail of her thumb to wipe the color cleanly, she said: “I’m not familiar with that name.”

“Jean? You two have met before. He’s the really tall third-grade teach—”

“No, no. I know who Jean is, silly,” she pursed her lips, reminiscing over afternoons where she’d visit Eren at work, occasionally crossing paths with the golden eyes. His casual banter and quick wit were undoubtedly memorable. “I meant _‘Armin.’_ ”

“Ah,” his voice echoed, and Mikasa watched how his silhouette took a moment to wash his hair before responding with: “He’s the school librarian. I’ve only talked to him once or twice casually, but he’s good friends with Jean. The car we have now _works_ —it at least gets us places—but…” The shower water turned off, the sound of pitter-pattering water crashing against the tile coming to a tentative halt. Glass slid open once more, and Mikasa handed a towel to her husband so he could wrap the cloth around his waist. “We could use another car.”

“One for the both of us,” she took a second to think, zoning off to the side as Eren continued to dry himself. “It’s not a bad idea.”

He stood in front of her, Mikasa’s head tilting upward to see her husband glisten in the harsh light of the bathroom, water droplets taunting her on the corners of his torso. She smiled when he leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead—he carried the scent of shampoo, his touch radiating the slightest warmth in result of the shower.

“Are you okay with me talking to Armin about it, then?”

“Go ahead,” she returned the kiss, taking a second before murmuring against his lips: “Now, go away. I’m trying to paint my nails.”

…

Envy was a frustrating thing—a living, breathing nuisance that introduced itself in the smallest of forms.

Initially, Eren was quite good at ignoring the green monster, though in time, its presence became harder to ignore.

It had started in the teacher’s lounge, murmured praise of Ms. Dreyse’s _“excellent work”_ regarding the mock exams only tapping on Eren’s shoulder. He’d smile, nod his head, and choke out an agreement to his coworkers.

“Hitch works hard,” he’d say, nearly wincing at the smirk that would dig itself into the lips of the dirty-blonde coworker. If only she were aware of the comparisons his mind would stitch together, the list of _“but I…”_ statements that begged to fall from his lips.

And then staff meetings started to poke at him as well: how the principal would dismiss _“all staff except those involved with this year’s mock exam,”_ though Jean would calm his nerves with a sympathetic clutch on the shoulder.

“You’d bring a lot to that team,” he’d nod his head backward vaguely as the teachers funneled out of the library. “Though something tells me you’re better off uninvolved.”

Eren would send his friend a weak grin, one where his lips were pressed together in a thin line to express thanks for advice he didn’t necessarily believe. And Jean knew that fact very well, a brief squeeze on the shoulder enough to tell Eren he was aware of their disagreement.

So the fourth-grade teacher would go home to his wife, a yelp escaping her whenever he’d wrap his arms around her frame and pull her to lay on the couch—where his head rested on her chest and she’d play with the strands of his hair. It seemed listening to her breathing was one of the few decent things left in his world.

“I just don’t understand,” she’d always listen to his frustrated rambles. “I think Hitch is a nice person—I really do. She’s just not…”

He closed his eyes, focussing on the muse of her fingers carding through his hair and the gentle breaths that lulled him into peace, how her chest rose and fell gracefully despite his weight most certainly crushing her.

Reading his mind, Mikasa said: “She’s not you.”

“I feel pretentious thinking that, but I can’t help it,” he sighed.

“Eren…”

“They have high expectations, and I can reach them.”

“I know you can,” she paused for a moment. “But what’s done is done. They took you off the team—which is unfair and stupid, yeah—but you can’t change the past. Dwelling on this is only dragging you down.”

And he let out a frustrated sigh. She was right. She spoke nothing but the truth, and a part of Eren was mad at his wife for always being the gentle voice of reason instead of joining and encouraging him in his frustrated resentment.

The world rested for a measure before he closed his eyes to say, “I just wish they’d see potential in me.”

“I know you do,” he felt a pair of hands cup his cheeks, encouraging him to look up and make eye contact with two, warm orbs of dark chocolate. “What matters most is that you have people like me and Jean who _do_ see that potential.”

Eren inched up close to place a kiss on her lips as if to say _“thank you,”_ as if to drink her words and let them linger in him forever. And they lingered for a little while, Mikasa’s warmth and reassurance having an inexplicable effect on him.

But the effect vanished the day of the exam, when he proctored his students and was forced to swallow the snarky comments that begged to fall from him. Mikasa was even considerate of the day’s occasion, taking her husband to work that morning and showering him in encouragement during the drive there, but the reality of test packets somehow trumped her sweetness.

A part of Eren wanted to reveal the answer key to his students, to show false statistics to administration and prove that the test was just _“too easy,”_ that the exam team _“must not have worked hard enough.”_ When he flipped through the packets and saw one of his very own questions was kept as a written response, Eren felt the urge to throw the test in the recycling bin, to teach his students the art of the middle finger so they might march to the front office together and send vulgar gestures to his superiors. The thought certainly put a smile on his face, and he could only imagine the exasperated _“Eren!”_ that would come from Levi.

But Eren bit his tongue and handed his students their tests—begrudgingly, yet he complied nonetheless. He watched his students work, watched their eyes squint at big-worded questions and watched small index fingers run underneath the text to keep track of their reading. The worst part was he _was_ impressed with the content the packets held. Eren tried to combat the jealousy, did his best by remembering the gentle reassurance of his wife and the sympathetic clutch on the shoulder Jean always provided, but envy seemed to trump his efforts.

Maybe it’s impossible to fight the humanness that resides inside of a person, to fight the _‘dirty’_ emotions we tend to feel so intensely. We were designed to feel, created to react to situations in deep and personal ways—it’s in our very nature. Maybe it’s okay to welcome those dirty emotions and acknowledge how they hover over your shoulder as you continue to push forward. Surely recognition of their presence meant you had more control than if rejection (or worse, repression) was the course of action. That was the one thing Eren was sure he wanted to do: refuse to let jealousy and resentment control him any more than it already had.

It was a breath of fresh air when the test was finished, and soon came that time of day Eren was always grateful for: elective time. With a dramatic sigh, the teacher sat at his desk and leaned back into his chair, his feet propped atop crumpled papers and manila folders.

There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Yeager?”

Startled, Eren scrambled to sit properly in his chair, papers flying as his feet swung off the desk and onto the floor. His eyes snapped open, but his worried expression immediately softened once he saw her: blue jeans, a white tank top, a pink cardigan, and dark hair that hovered just above her shoulders.

A half-smile slowly dug itself into his lips. “Hey, you.”

Mikasa returned the smile, walking into the classroom and tapping twice on the _‘visitor’_ sticker on her cardigan. “Thought I’d pop in today.”

He nodded his head, a smile set on his face as he watched her kneel to pick up the papers that had flown off of his desk. After an, “Oh, right,” escaped Eren, he got up from his chair to help her. Eren’s eyes landed on a take out bag wrapped around her arm.

Perplexed, Eren said, “I brought a lunch today.”

They stood, Mikasa handing her husband back his paperwork. “Somethin’ told me you might want Capriotti’s instead.”

“I mean,” his voice trailed off to watch Mikasa take out sandwiches from the bag, and he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not against it, that’s for sure.”

And she smiled softly, exhaled a laugh through the nose before the couple sat at his desk to indulge themselves in their meal: a Bobbie for Eren and a simple, turkey sandwich for Mikasa. She distracted him, updated him about her day with endearing breadcrumbs sitting on her lips and chin: a phone call she had with her mother, an encounter she had with the mailman, a battle in which she defeated a spider.

“I couldn’t find my shoe to wack it, so I ended up using yours—”

“Hold on,” he chuckled, leaning over the desk and using his thumb to wipe off the crumbs sitting on her lip. Eren smiled softly to himself, thumb now gentle to run across her bottom lip.

She was a little caught off guard by his action, slowly speaking against his thumb as she continued. “So… now you have spider guts on your shoes.”

“Eh, that’s alright,” he smiled. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Of course,” there was a slight shift in tone, and her eyes lowered to stare at the sandwich wrappers on the desk. “Today isn’t easy for you.”

“Well…” his voice dragged, the _l’s_ lasting for a measure before he continued. “You’ve just made it better.”

A roll of the eyes. “It must be a _really_ difficult day if you’re saying cheesy things like that.”

He returned the eye roll and scoffed to tease, “Oh, so I can’t be nice now?”

“I guess not,” a soft smile dug into her lips. “Though I don’t think ‘nice’ and ‘lame’ are the same thing.”

“C’ mon.”

“I’m just tellin’ you how it is,” she smirked.

There was a moment of stillness, tranquil and hospitably abrupt, as his thumb continued to caress her lower lip, and Eren was helpless to how his eyes drifted about her features.

She was a quiet beauty, humble yet entirely captivating. She was that particular shade of orange dusk carried; the first snowfall of winter; the dew drops that embraced blades of grass at daybreak. And her small details, her subtle intricacies amounted to a woman who never failed to exude grace. Whether it was the slope of her nose or the point of her chin, an unmistakable elegance radiated off of her every move. Obsidian bangs fell in front of her face, getting caught within her eyelashes. An abundance of twilight was held within the stars of her eyes, and he took a moment to gaze into them.

His hand moved to cup her face, and perhaps Eren’s gaze softened because she was shy to look down at the surface of his desk. He felt her release a gentle breath against his thumb, and he was tempted to count each of her eyelashes as she stared at a clutter of sandwich wrappers. Eren was clueless as to how she managed to overwhelm him with serenity amid the chaos, even if it came in the form of Bobbies and spider guts.

“I wish you could stay for the rest of the day,” he blurted out.

And Mikasa let out a gentle laugh, twilight fluttering up to look into his greens. “Eren…”

“I know, I know,” he shrugged a single shoulder. “Cheesy.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” she paused for a moment, hand lifting to rest atop the larger one that cupped her face. “But it’s also sweet.”

“Ah, so I _can_ be nice.”

“Well, that wasn’t lame.”

“C’ mon,” he smirked. “That was pretty lame.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Are you saying I can be lame, then?”

“Only every now and then.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Just don’t do it too often.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He didn’t realize their voices were hushed until he felt another gentle breath grace his thumb, noticing just how close their faces had grown to be. They paused for a moment, and Eren understood the drift of her eyes to his lips as an invitation to close the gap resting between them.

Well, he was going to close the gap before there was a knock on the door. Eren heard a voice cough awkwardly, a confused, “Mr. Yeager?” following suit.

He could barely feel Mikasa’s hovering lips as he spoke, and he let out a sigh against them. Hesitantly, he asked: “Yes?”

“Just thought I’d bring your class over from the library this afternoon.”

“Who’s that?” Mikasa whispered.

“I’m pretty sure that’s,” his eyes squeezed shut, “Armin.”

“Car guy?”

“Car guy.”

Eren retracted his hand from cupping his wife’s cheek, clearing his throat and standing up to come face to face with his coworker. Armin was a lean man of cordial atmosphere. A man whose eyes, hazel and etched with flakes of gold, exuded inexplicable calmness and composure. A man who had the kind of smile that never failed to know what one was thinking. But there were no smiles sent in Eren’s direction. Instead, he met a pair of furrowed brows hidden behind wired glasses.

“From the library! Right,” Eren nodded his head, a subtle heat rising to his cheeks. “That’s, uh, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Arlert.”

Armin slowly nodded his head, flakes of gold flickering back and forth between the couple presented to him. An awkward measure later and he bobbed his head back to gesture at the clutter of students behind him vaguely. “Think you can end your lunch to take these kiddos back?”

“I can do that,” Eren forced a smile, noticing how Mikasa was now standing to gather her items and trash. There was a forced chuckle. “That’s my job, after all.”

“ _Right_ ,” Armin’s voice trailed off. He stepped to the side, encouraging the group of fourth graders to funnel into the classroom, the chit-chat of small voices flooding the room.

Mikasa cleared her throat, sending an awkward smile her husbands way before saying, “I, uh, guess I’ll pick you up later then?”

“Suppose so,” he sighed. He considered placing a kiss on her forehead to bid goodbye, longing for the opportunity presented moments ago that had just been interrupted; however, the sudden tensity of the classroom’s air suggested he didn’t.

And so Mikasa headed out the door, adjusting her cardigan in awkward disposition before pausing in front of Armin. She blinked a few times, clearing her throat and lifting a hand to say, “It’s nice to meet you.”

There was hesitance in how the librarian lifted his arm to shake Mikasa’s hand, and he only watched as the woman dropped her gaze to the floor and hurried out of the classroom. The two teachers made eye contact for a brief moment, flakes of gold observing Eren briefly before quietly walking out of the classroom. It took the fourth-grade teacher a few moments to recuperate before realizing he should calm down the loud and restless wiggles of his students.

“Mr. Yeager!” A small voice ran up to him. He blinked a few times before realizing it was Historia. ”Can we skip math today? I’m so tired.”

“Yeah!” Another student intruded, a scrawny boy with buzzed hair crossing his arms to complain, “We tested _all day_.”

“Actually it was only for an hour,” another young boy tentatively added.

“No, it had to be longer.”

Another voice. “I don’t know. Bertholdt is usually right about this kind of stuff.”

“I honestly just looked the clock…”

“It had to be longer than that, though. Maybe time slows down when you take tests.”

“Don’t be stupid, Connie.”

A gasp. “Ymir, don’t be so rude!”

“Well, maybe he shouldn’t be stupid.”

“I don’t like clocks,” another young girl spoke up. “They have too many hands, and it freaks me out.”

“You know they’re not _actually_ hands, right Sasha?”

“Yeah, but it’s still weird.”

“My grandma got me a really cool robot clock for my birthday last year. It’s at home.”

Historia grunted. “You guys! We’re getting off track.”

Eren lifted his hands, shaking his head with a chuckle to say, “Alright, calm down everyone. Back to your seats.”

The blonde remained in front of her teacher, soft blues hopeful in persuading him to ask again, “Can we skip math?”

His eyes glanced up to see his students as they settled into their seats, and he paused for a moment to think. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who needed a break from everything.

“Alright,” he shrugged. “Who wants to play a few rounds of Heads Up, Seven Up?”


End file.
